


Astra et Luna

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Creature Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gargoyles - Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Years upon years of abuse both at home and at school have all led to this—Dean Winchester, driving through rural Kansas, in search of any place to rest and quell his pain. On his travels, he finds a cemetery outside of Topeka that he starts to visit every chance he gets, the monotony of such a small plot of land one of his only comforts. Only now, among the graves, he finds a new visitor constructed entirely of concrete—and radiating heat. This statue will soon be Dean's confidant, best friend, and maybe something more.





	Astra et Luna

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring art by [TheFriendlyPigeon!](http://thefriendlypigeon.tumblr.com/post/174570251804/astra-et-luna-dcrb-2018-art-masterpost)

Pain—that’s the only word Dean can find to describe his busted lip and the scrapes and bruises along his arms and legs. And with pain comes anger, and with anger comes the blinding reality of his own inferiority against teenagers larger than him. Futilely, he spits out the blood pooling in his mouth and wipes the rest from his lip, all while they laugh at him, all three of them, with their scuffed hands and twisted grins.

Whatever they say falls on deaf ears. Leaving the airy space beneath the bleachers, Dean limps his way away from the track towards the school once again, bleeding arm wrapped around his middle, protecting a rib he knows is fractured or bruised, if not outright broken. Breathing takes more effort than necessary, but he can deal with that later, when Lawrence High’s quarterback and his cronies aren’t starting him down, waiting to slam their fists in again.

If only they’d stop—that’s all Dean asks for, is that they stop.

The silence in the halls greets him like an old friend, cold and lonely as it is. Dean ducks into the gym locker room and shuts the door behind him, thankful that the rest of the class is still out on the track. Though, having at least one witness wouldn’t’ve hurt anyone. Just someone to stop the violence, to shove away the hands and get Dean to safety. _Fat chance_ , he growls to himself. _Like anyone would come rescue me_.

Really, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been, Dean considers, looking in the mirror. Sure, they split his lip and he’ll have a hell of a shiner tomorrow, but they could’ve done so much worse. “Need to learn how to fight back,” Dean says aloud, just loud enough for himself to hear. “Or at least scream.”

Diligently, Dean washes off his arms and legs with whatever flimsy paper towels he can find, the brown tissues coming away deep maroon once he’s done. He deposits the remnants in the bottom of the trash can before he dabs at the wound marring his lip. Only, it won’t stop bleeding. Holding a square there, he waits for a few minutes, just to see if it clots; it wouldn't be the first time he’s gone to the nurse’s office after a fight, but considering she knows him on a first name basis, Dean would really rather avoid it.

His lip keeps bleeding, though, much to his chagrin. There’s still another thirty minutes left of class, enough time for him to get there and back without being missed. Not that anyone would miss him in the first place; the only time he ever exists is when baseball season starts, then all eyes are on him. From his coaches to his peers and his dad, he gets one bright, shining season.

The rest of his life is hell.

He dresses as carefully as he can without bloodying his shirt—a gray graphic tee emblazoned with the Firebird logo—and leaves the locker room, paper towel still pressed to his lip. Despite his sorry state, no one says a word to him as he walks through the halls, and that, in and of itself, is a blessing. Indoors is Dean’s sanctuary, where he can coexist with his classmates without the fear of abuse. Anywhere else, though, that’s fair game.

Mrs. Johnson—Hannah, she repeatedly tells him—is sitting behind her desk when Dean walks in, battered as he always is. And as if on cue, Hannah’s eyes harden at the sight of him, lips turning into a frown. “You didn’t fall down the stairs again, did you?” she asks before scooting her rolling chair back, digging through a cabinet for antiseptic and a Band-Aid.

The routineness of it turns Dean’s stomach more than the boot to the abdomen he took not long ago. “Guess I’m just clumsy after all,” Dean joshes, sitting in one of the three plastic chairs in Hannah’s office. He winces as his lip pulls with the strain of his hollow laughter, eyes beginning to prickle. No use crying about it now, especially in front of someone who didn’t care.

Hannah doesn’t admonish him, though, only shakes her head as she rounds her desk, pulling up a seat to sit opposite him. Carefully, she wipes his lip clean with a sterile bit of gauze and instructs Dean to hold it there while she snaps an instant ice pack in half, massaging the gel in her hands. “You should really let me call your father,” she sighs, offering Dean the compress.

Dean takes it with a trembling hand, squeezing it in his fist for a long, strained second. The chill eases the ache once he places it to his lip; this time, he wipes away his tears before Hannah has a chance to see. _Just a bad day_ , he lies to himself. _It’ll get better_. “He doesn’t care,” Dean admits, his first truth of the day. “He doesn’t…”

If anything, Hannah’s expression darkens even further. “What about your mom? Do you think you can stay with her for a while?”

He shakes his head, head bowed. If only it was that simple. “She lives in Chicago. Dad says she hasn’t called, but… I think he’s lying.”

Hannah’s hands sometimes feel like magic. Uncalloused fingers tease Dean’s hairline while her palm rests on his uninjured cheek, just holding him until the shivers begin to subside. When had they even started? “You can tell me their names,” she offers. Dean’s head throbs with how violently he shakes it. “Are they really that bad, Dean?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dean mutters, eyes pinched shut. Everything hurts, and no matter if Hannah can help or not, nothing will ever get done. Words and promises mean nothing when the administration has no intentions of remedying the problem. “I just wanna… I can’t go home anymore, and I can’t come here. Where do I go?”

“You know I can’t do anything,” Hannah soothes, or attempts to. Dean breaks either way, nearly doubling over himself in his agony, wheezing while he sobs. She strokes through his hair, easing the ache, just enough to keep him grounded, rooted to something. “I’m already violating the ethics code just by helping you.”

 “Just one night,” Dean begs, clutching his stomach, compress jammed against his lip. “Please, I’ll pay you, just… I’ll do anything, _please_.”

“I can’t,” Hannah says, just as distraught. “You know I can’t, Dean.”

Dean knows, but the refusal hurts regardless. “I know,” he sighs, watery and rough in his throat. “I know, just… thought I’d ask.”

-+-

Dean doesn’t go home after school, not immediately. As much as he needs a fresh change of clothes and to hide in bed, he diverts from his normal route and heads west, as far as he can go without reaching Topeka. The crowded suburbs disappear into the rearview as the minutes tick on, trees beginning to fill the gaps. This, Dean can endure: the cold winds of early spring biting his cheeks, a hand hanging out the window as he drives one-handed, his foot to the accelerator and the world at his hands.

Maybe he should just live out of the car, or leave for Chicago and never look back. Mom would take him in no matter the circumstances, and would fight to keep him at her side, just like she fought for Sam. The only thing keeping Dean in Lawrence anymore is… honestly, he doesn’t know. Forgot the reason some time ago, before the drunken brawls but after the divorce. Duty, perhaps, or fear of abandoning the only father he’s ever known—but was it really worth it, after all?

Most days, it didn’t feel like it.

Dean begins to slow along the side of a barren stretch of road just as the sun begins to set, reds and yellows painting the darkening blue, clouds a spectacular shade of pink. Wherever he is, he’s far enough out to see nothing but unplanted fields and a few sporadic trees, and a familiar cemetery he’s come to claim as his own. In all his weeks of coming here, Dean has never bothered to look it up on a map, or even time how long it takes to get there. Somehow, he always finds his way, a constant in the hectic expanse of his life.

Maneuvering his behemoth of a car into the cemetery’s only driveway, Dean shifts into park and pops open the door latch, sliding from the seat with his leather jacket pulled around him. His grandfather’s, an accidental hand-me-down stolen from his father’s closet during one of John’s many drunken stupors. Now, it drapes around him, almost like a blanket, his hands barely reaching the hems of the sleeves. It protects him from the chill outside as he walks, trudging over dead earth and into the cemetery grounds, surrounded by a wrought iron fence and overgrown with grass.

There’s a glaring difference about it today, though. Normally, all there is is an oak tree and a few scattered headstones, their dates eroded off with the passage of time. But today, a large statue of an angel rests underneath the tree, constructed solely from one slab of concrete, the arches of its wings pointed towards the sky. It sits atop a small chair with its hands folded in his lap, head raised to the sky, a smile on its lips. However and whenever it got here, the person it’s marking must’ve been important, or rich enough to afford a monument nearly twice Dean’s height.

Dean stands before it for a few moments, staring at the man encased in stone; a cold gust blows, rattling Dean to his bones, and to steady himself, he reaches out to cling to the angel’s wing. Only, it’s warm. Verging on scalding, but with just the right edge of pleasant to keep Dean from jerking away. In fact, if he had to put a word to it, he might call the angel… comfortable.

So much so, that crawling into its lap almost seems natural. Shrugging off his coat, Dean climbs atop the chair and pulls himself up to sit in the cradle of the angel’s arms, allowing the heat to bleed into him, soaking through his skin and seemingly into his soul. It may lack the softness of human muscle and tissue, but Dean elects to ignore that and shuffles as close as he can, hands clasped around the angel’s neck. To keep warm, he lies to himself.

In reality, this is as close he’s gotten to a hug in over two years, one-sided as it is. “I’m scared,” he admits, pressing his cheek to the angel’s chest. Above him, the oak’s branches scrape against one another, sounding eerily reminiscent of a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m gonna see if I go home, and I don’t wanna go to class because… they’re there.” He swallows, hides his face. “Some nights, I can lock my door and dad won’t bother me because he’s passed out somewhere, but other times… I can’t keep wearing makeup, I just can’t. And I’m never gonna be good enough in his eyes so he’ll stop.”

Shame roils in his gut the longer he spills every detail and the story behind each and every bruise. Night falls, and still, Dean talks, until his voice grows hoarse and all he can do is sit there in companionable silence. Never once does the statue speak; not that Dean expected it to, anyway, but there’s something so unearthly about it, like it’s actually listening to him. Like at a moment’s notice, it could lift its hand and hold him, like Dean has always wanted.

“Maybe I am losing it,” Dean sighs, head bowed.

Wordlessly, Dean makes his way from the statue back onto solid earth, gathering his coat from where he left it. The angel’s warmth stays with him even after he leaves for a good few minutes, the last vestiges clinging to him and soothing every ache.

That thought alone forces Dean to look in the rearview before he turns over his Chevrolet’s engine, the small light above the glass illuminating his face and the significant lack of blemishes there. No busted lip, no bruised and bloodshot eye, nothing but the freckles dotting his face and the fear in his eyes.

Gone—it’s all gone. The scuffs on his knuckles, the scrape across his elbow, all vanished. And the culprit, Dean finds, glancing out of the window and back towards the cemetery, is gone, forgotten in the night.

The miracle it left behind is what scares him the most.

-+-

Rather than spend his lunch period sitting in his car eating stale peanut butter crackers, Dean spends twenty minutes perusing the stacks at the Lawrence Public Library for anything he can find about urban legends. Everything he finds is exactly the same thing he read online, which is nothing. No strange sightings of unidentified headstones in cemeteries, no manifestations of angels, no unexplained monuments. Ironically, he’s done more research here than he’s ever done in the school library, but at least now he knows where to head in the rows upon rows of books if he ever needs anything again.

Maybe it was just his imagination after all—a fever dream caused by a concussion, perhaps. Just a wild, vivid hallucination, fueled by his desire to escape, whether it be in reality or fantasies. That doesn’t explain how the angel is there again after school, though, sitting in the same spot under the same setting sun, like it never left at all. At first, Dean can do nothing but stare, leaning against the front quarter panel with his arms crossed, worn tennis shoes scuffing the dirt shoulder. Not a cloud in the sky today, nor a breeze. Just the chill of the night creeping in.

Whatever it is, it isn’t malevolent. Rather, it feels… friendly. Safe, even, a juxtaposition in the midst of the dead.

A minivan passes on the two-lane at his back; Dean pushes himself off the car as soon as it disappears from view, treading this time with purpose through the rusted gate and into the overgrown graveyard. Just like the day before, the angel sits, as warm as ever, the very air around it sweat-inducing. Dean cradles its knee before stepping atop the seat, dragging himself up to sit in the angel’s arms again.

Dean lets a beat pass before he speaks, tongue thick in his mouth. “I don’t know what you are,” he says, wringing his hands in his lap. “Or if I’ve got a head injury or something, but… Whatever you are, you healed me.” Glancing up, Dean half expects for the angel to be looking down at him. Instead, he’s met with the angel’s chin, as still as always. If only it moved—then, at least, Dean could truly feel comforted in his confessions. “Are you real?”

No answer. Dean never expected one, anyway.

Unlike yesterday, Dean remains silent during his visit, pulling his jacket close around him and just sitting there, head pressed to the angel’s chest. No heartbeat, but power still thrums through its body, radiating into Dean. Not inanimate, and certainly not human. “Dad wasn’t home last night,” Dean sighs, eyes slipping shut. “First night he hasn’t been there. Still had a knife from the kitchen under my pillow, though, in case he decided to wail on me in the middle of the night.”

Idly, Dean picks at a cuticle and scoffs, “Shouldn’t have to be this way, man. Can’t let my guard down, and even when I’m safe, I’m… I feel like I’m gonna keel over. Can you have a heart attack at seventeen?”

“I would certainly hope not,” a voice rings out, hollow and barely audible in the back of Dean’s head.

Dean’s heart rate spikes. If not for the warmth, he would bolt away, or trip over himself in an effort to flee. It’s not a trap, but something certainly keeps him close and sets him at ease enough to urge him to stay. “You can talk?” Dean asks, wary, looking up again. Still no movement, not even from the oak tree. “What are you?”

“I am far from home,” the angel answers, equally as distant, but growing stronger the further the sun sinks below the horizon. “When darkness falls, come to me. I can show you.”

So Dean waits. For another hour, Dean sits in the passenger seat of his Impala and fiddles with his phone, bringing up webpage after webpage in search of what this all means. Ghosts, creatures made of stone—hell, vampires even, anything that can influence his thoughts to let itself be heard. Gargoyles pop across his screen more than he would like; the problem is, this doesn’t look like a gargoyle, other than the fact it’s made of concrete. There isn’t any evil to fend off here, from what Dean can see, just a petrified angel. Comforting the thought may be, it could still be a demon, or a lesser angel, or… whatever the internet says it is.

Too many words for this time of night, and Dean can barely see anyway, what with the moon beginning to rise.

The moon— _night_. Dropping his phone into the footwell, Dean glances over in time to see the Angel move, its outer surface cracking and exposing a bright, blueish light from within. Pieces of concrete begin to break away, collapsing to the earth and withering to dust. There in its place, a man stands, with nearly translucent wings extending from his back. Shakily, he makes his way to his feet and casts a glance in Dean’s direction, blue eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

Only by the miracle of adrenaline does Dean drag himself the short distance from the Impala to the cemetery, his shoes crunching the dead grass with every step. His heart pounds almost through his skin the closer he gets, hands trembling at his sides. Yet, he continues, only stopping when he gets within arm’s length of… whatever this is. Man, angel… something. “So you’re real,” Dean begins, a bit high pitched at first. Clearing his throat, he tries again, “You talked to me.”

“I didn’t have the energy,” he speaks, hollow, reverberating through Dean’s skull enough to ache. “You’ve aided me.”

“In what?” Dean asks. Something about the paleness of his skin frightens Dean, almost like the stones never fell away in the first place. “What’s… Do you have a name?”

The angel looks over himself, then towards his wings, all with a placid smile on his face. “I am Castiel,” Castiel says, blinking almost mechanically. Definitely not human—definitely not anything Dean has ever seen. “I’m… a long way from my origin, but this is my home now.”

“Really?” Dean snorts, earning a curious glint from Castiel. “This little patch of dirt is your home?”

“These were good people,” Castiel comments. Kneeling, he sits before one of the headstones, wings kicking up dust as he moves. “They’re lonely people. I’m watching over them.”

Good intentions or not, it’s still weird, Dean thinks. “Why did you heal me?” Dean asks, tucking his hands under his arms. Castiel watches him without scrutiny, rising to his feet soundlessly. “Yesterday, you just… I was pretty banged up, and you went and did… whatever you did.”

For a long second, Castiel just stands there, wings nearly blending into the night if not for their gray pallor. “I shouldn’t say,” he mutters, turning his head back to the stone slab on which he once sat. “My kind aren’t easily understood by humans. Or seen, for that matter.”

“Try me,” Dean grunts. “What’re you, some kind of vampire or something?”

Castiel laughs, bowing his head. “Gargoyle. And I have no intention of doing something as barbaric as drinking your blood. We feed using other methods. Safer methods.”

Cautious, Dean takes a step toward Castiel. Even at a distance, he’s scorching, radiating heat like a furnace, and Dean wants to reach out again, let Castiel hold him just to shake the chill from his bones. “You took my pain,” Dean suggests, and Castiel nods. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Castiel says, just the barest hint of reticence in his voice. “I hadn’t fed in… years. You’ve been the first person to visit here in decades. And I thought, I could give you something in return.” He pauses to lift his hand, pressing his thumb to the scar running along Dean’s lower lip, where just a day before, a fist collided with his mouth. “You’re too beautiful to hurt like you do.”

Dean should pull away. Every instinct tells him to, but his brain refuses to catch on, even when he steps closer, hands still tucked underneath his arms. As comforting as Castiel’s presence is, he can’t allow himself the vulnerability. After all, Castiel isn’t human. He could be lying. Demons lie—who’s to say Castiel wouldn’t, if it meant stealing Dean’s life?

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Castiel soothes, eyes falling half lidded. Dean swallows, throat dry, his face burning under Castiel’s gaze. “Any time you need me, you can come here.”

“Why can’t you come with me?” Dean asks, merely out of curiosity, but also desperation. Because if Castiel is what he says he is, then he can protect Dean, can keep him safe. Most importantly, he can erase the remnants of Dean’s wounds on a whim, just so long as Dean allows Castiel to touch him, to… feed from him. A shiver runs up his spine at the thought.

Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t leave my home. It’s taken me long enough to reach here, and I can’t move during the day, or…”

“Or you’ll turn back to stone,” Dean says. Castiel nods, wings slumping at his back. “But I can come back here, right? I can… You’ll be here?”

“Yes,” Castiel affirms. Only then does his hand drop, but not far; he pulls one of Dean’s hands free instead, looping his fingers around the frail skin of Dean’s wrist. Dean sucks in a breath. “Don’t hurt yourself every time you visit, though. Take care of yourself.”

“Dean,” Dean offers, a whisper. “I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says with a smile. “I’ll see you soon.”

In disbelief, Dean nods and retrieves his hand. And before he can stop himself, he offers Castiel a quick grin before he turns to leave. His footsteps fail to drown out the sound of fluttering wings and Castiel humming silently to himself, a lonesome song that hurts Dean just to hear.

-+-

The abuse doesn’t stop—neither at home nor at school—but Dean finds his way to Castiel’s home regardless, parking alongside the patch of dirt shortly after nightfall and just… sitting there. Sometimes talking, sometimes sharing companionable silence. It’s cathartic in its own way, though, having someone to talk to that isn’t Hannah or any of his teachers. His father never speaks to him, and his mother’s attempts at communication end up in slammed receivers and words shouted at no one.

Most nights, Dean sleeps fitfully, either in his own bed or in the backseat of his car, parked wherever he can find a safe spot. Most nights, he sits at Castiel’s side, or lets Castiel card his fingers through his hair, sapping the day’s worries away through his fingertips.

Strangely, Dean comes to crave the sight of the moon, longing for it more than the sun.

“You’re looking better,” Hannah mentions between classes one morning, a month after Dean’s discovery and a month after he came to her, begging for sanctuary. She offers a smile, hazel eyes wide and hopeful. “Have you been talking with someone?”

Books in hand, Dean nods. The truth won’t work here, and he never intends to tell a soul what Castiel is, anyway. “Just made a friend,” Dean says with a shrug. It isn’t a lie, either; Dean really does value Castiel as a friend, short as their hours together are.

And strangely, his heart sinks knowing that it can’t last forever. One day, Dean will move away. He’ll escape his father and make his way to Chicago, or anywhere in the country, and Castiel will only be a distant memory. If only he could take Castiel with him—if only Castiel wanted to tag along, as well.

“I’m glad.” Gently, Hannah palms his shoulder over his jacket, squeezing him tight. “I’m always here if you want me to call someone. I know you’re seventeen—”

“There’d be no use getting me in the system, I know,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. “Trust me, I know. But the minute I turn eighteen next year, I’m leaving. I’ll transfer all my credits and I’m bailing. I just…” Another shrug, another sigh. “Gotta make it until then, I guess.”

Hannah offers him a pained smile. “Take care of yourself. If anything happens…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Dean assures. Part of him wishes she wouldn't worry so much; the other half is grateful that out of everyone in this school, one person has taken the effort to care about his well-being, ethical or not. “You worry too much, you know that?”

“Well, after someone comes into my office every day for three months, I have to start caring at some point,” she chuckles. “Go to class. Don’t let me see you with something broken, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says, as close to a promise as he can get. With all of his heart, he hopes it never comes to that.

-+-

“I’m gonna be eighteen soon,” Dean says, head tipped back into Castiel’s lap. Opening his eyes, he watches Castiel look down at him, Castiel’s fingers dancing across the curve of his jaw, over a blossoming bruise. This time, Dean fought back—this time, Dean won. “Couple months or so.”

Castiel tilts his head, blue eyes narrowing. “Is that significant?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Dean places his hands on his stomach, rolling his shoulders. “I’m gonna hop town. Minute January twenty-fourth gets here, I’m leaving, I’m gonna head to Chicago.”

Softly, Castiel smiles down at him, fingers tangling in Dean’s hair. “It’ll be good for you. You can stay with your family, the people who care for you.”

“Ain’t gonna be the same without you, though.”

And before Dean can second guess himself, he sits up, fluidly turning to face Castiel in the same movement. Castiel doesn’t rear back, doesn’t do much else other than sit with his back to the oak, hands now hanging listlessly in his lap. Here, bare knees brushing Castiel’s slacks, Dean can really look at Castiel, his cheekbones illuminated by the moonlight, casting him in pale shadows.

 Castiel has always been beautiful to Dean; tonight, he really does resemble an angel, solemnly guarding the souls he’s been tasked to watch over. He has to have some other purpose, something other than looking forward to Dean visiting every night or watching over a dozen graves. “You said you came from far away,” Dean starts, fisting the grass between his fingers. “But can you leave? Like… if you wanted to, could you leave?” _Could you come with me_? Dean wants to ask.

“I could,” Castiel answers, contemplative. “I have nothing tying me to this land other than that it’s good land. It’s sacred land. Are you asking me to travel with you?”

Sheepishly, Dean nods. Maybe Castiel knows him better than Dean thinks he does. Or he can read Dean’s mind; honestly, Dean wouldn’t put it past him. “If you wanted. You don’t gotta—you can stay, if that’s what you gotta do. Just… I kinda like seeing you, is all. I mean, we’ve known each other—”

“Seven months and fifteen days,” Castiel replies.

Dean chuckles, bowing his head. “Yeah, since March. And I’ve come here every night, and you’ve been… nice. Nicer than anyone I’ve ever known, even if you are a… gargoyle thing.”

Castiel offers him a smile, his wings rustling and expanding at his back, the tips of his feathers scraping the edges of the cemetery fence. Have they always been that huge? “And you,” Castiel adds, palming Dean’s cheek with a warm hand, “have been nothing but kind to me, despite knowing what I am. I’ve met humans in the past, but they’ve never understood me, or my kind. You came to me in a time of need, and every evening, I watched you grow into yourself. And I hope I at least… helped you, somehow.”

“You did,” Dean assures. “You did, trust me. I just… don’t want you to be alone, is all. There’s gotta be better places to go, things to see.”

For a while, Castiel doesn’t answer, his brow pursed in thought. Dean, meanwhile, moves to sit at Castiel’s side, their shoulders brushing. Softly, Castiel’s wing drapes around him, settling over his lap. Numerous times, Dean has spent hours running his hands through the feathers, the solidity of them soothing his nerves and giving him something to do with his hands; every time, Castiel purrs and wordlessly begs for more, like a stray kitten receiving attention for the first time.

Today, Castiel just leans his head on Dean’s shoulder while Dean cards through the feathers, Castiel’s breath coming out in steady, even bursts. “On the day you leave,” Castiel says, slow, like he’s testing the words on his tongue, “cut off my hand.”

Dean balks, and if the weight of Castiel’s wing wasn't holding him down, he would’ve bolted away. “Your—Dude, are you—”

“Think of my body as a seed,” Castiel cuts him off, not the least bit unkindly. “I travel wherever the wind takes me. Wherever I’m planted, my vessel will grow. Even just a part of me can regenerate the moment I’m laid into the earth, and I’ll stay there until I move again.”

As simple an explanation as it is, Dean still grimaces at the description, at the thought of cutting off Castiel’s entire hand. “Won’t that… hurt you?”

Castiel shrugs, offering his hand palm-up. Dean takes it out of curiosity, pressing his thumb to the middle of Castiel’s palm; despite the blood and bone constructing Castiel’s body, his skin lacks the give of a normal human. Even in this form, existing and talking and breathing, he’s still inhuman, formed solely from stone. Yet inside him is a heart, beating like all the rest.

“I don’t feel pain,” Castiel says, directly into Dean’s ear. “My body will disintegrate, but my essence will be in that hand. Whenever you find a spot, take me there.”

Tongue thick in his mouth, Dean finds all he can do is nod, his attention solely on Castiel’s hand in his. “Am I being selfish, wanting this?” _Wanting you_? Dean thinks, lip between his teeth. Because this isn’t something a regular friend would do, asking someone to accompany them while they run away from home. This is out of desperation, out of… affection. Out of everyone Dean could’ve fallen for, it had to be a monster.

Castiel just smiles, hiding his face in the curve of Dean’s neck. “I want it too, if it’s any consolation,” he whispers, quiet as the night. “I’ll go with you.”

-+-

It takes planning, and observing his father’s movements daily to find a moment where Dean can reach John’s phone book without him looking. Unfortunately, the bastard doesn’t work more than a few hours a day, but fortunately, those few hours begin when Dean is supposed to leave for school.

The morning before Dean’s eighteenth birthday, Dean parks a few blocks down the street and waits for his father to leave for work, or whatever it is he does during the morning. Only then does Dean return to the house and rush inside, rummaging through the kitchen for any trace of the black book hidden in the cabinets. He finds it in the bottom of a perpetually empty cereal box, and Dean jots the numbers for both his brother and his mother down into his phone. That’s all he needs. The rest—the number for Lawrence High’s records office, any potential school system in Chicago, hell, even his grandparents—he can get later.

For now, he has what he needs. Just as quietly as he came, checking over his shoulder every chance he can, Dean makes his way to his car and pulls out of the driveway, heading in the direction of Lawrence High. It shouldn’t be this easy—but then again, John shouldn’t be so predictable.

Homeroom doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes; Dean spends the remainder of his morning parked in the student lot behind the school, phone in his shaking hands. He did it. A week of careful observation and endurance, and he did it. His last day in Kansas shouldn’t be so bittersweet. If anything, he should be happy, knowing that his life is now his own, and he can do anything he wishes with it. But this was his life. For the last seventeen years, all Dean has known is Kansas.

 _It’s time for a change_ , Dean tells himself, tears in his eyes. His mother is the first person he calls—and like he’d always hoped, she picks up on the first ring. “Dean?” Mary answers, and Dean almost bursts into a sob. “Dean, is that you?”

“Hey,” he answers, resting his head on the steering wheel. “Hey, I’m—I’m coming home. Tonight.”

-+-

The sun still has another hour before it sets across the Kansas prairie, giving Dean enough time to leave his last class and make it to the cemetery just as the sky is beginning to redden. As he always has, Castiel sits under the shade of the oak tree. The familiarity of the scene still sits in the back of Dean’s mind, how he came here almost a year ago today, bloodied and bruised and seeking rescue. Now, he stands before Castiel with a hammer in his hand, preparing himself to destroy the visage of the man he’s come to treasure.

“I know you can hear me,” Dean starts, wiping his wet eyes with the back of his coat sleeve. “It won’t be long, okay? I’m gonna find you somewhere safe. Even if it’s my backyard, I’m gonna… Even if we can only see each other at night, I don’t care. I’ll break into every cemetery I can if it means I get to talk to you again. And even if you decide you wanna leave someday, just know that this last year has been the best of my life, because you’ve been here with me. You… You saved me, Castiel.” A pause. Dean grits his teeth. “Just…”

Briefly, Dean takes Castiel’s hand, currently perched atop his knee, and leans in to kiss Castiel’s cheek, the concrete there warm against his lips. “Forgive me, please.”

Castiel’s hand comes clean off in one chunk, still burning hot when Dean picks it up off the ground. The rest of him, however, collapses into dust, blowing away with the sudden breeze. All at once, the pressure in Dean’s chest breaks, and he sinks to his knees, Castiel’s hand in his own. He presses the fingers to his forehead, just to feel Castiel’s warmth again. _A few more days_ , he tells himself, openly weeping in the burgeoning night. _A few more days, and it’ll all be okay. I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay._

-+-

Dean buries Castiel’s hand beneath a tree in a park outside of Naperville, Illinois two weeks later. Coat pulled tight, Dean traverses the streets on foot and makes his way from his neighborhood into Springbrook Prairie Forest, the entire park blanketed in a thick sheet of white. So much so, that Dean’s feet barely even hit the ground when he steps, trudging his way through the mess until he finds a spot along a creek bed, far away from regular foot traffic.

Kneeling along the banks of the frozen creek, Dean digs with gloved hands until he reaches solid earth. _No use trying to bury it now_ , Dean thinks. In this weather, digging even an inch into the soil would be a miracle. Instead, he pulls the hand from his coat pocket and kisses the fingertips lightly, enough to reignite the warmth only chilled from the air.

“This better work,” Dean huffs, breath coming out as warm mist. He places the hand into the makeshift hole, covers it with snow, and steps back, fully expecting a sudden cloud of smoke or an explosion to rock the area. All he’s met with is the sight of limbs growing out of the ground in the moonlight, gangly and horrifying, all bone and tendons and then flesh. Clothing follows after, and wings sprout from the back of the monster, taking up a large swath of the snow-gray sky, until they settle, shaking off the accumulation.

Dean stares, transfixed, shivering while Castiel comes into being again. Eventually, blue eyes settle on Dean and Dean alone, glowing brilliantly in the night—and they soften the minute Castiel finds him, wings giving a generous flap, unsettling the snow around them. “Dean,” Castiel rasps, voice hoarse from disuse, and extends his arms.

Dean runs to him without a second thought, Castiel soon enveloping him in unbridled warmth, radiating from his entire being. The chill fades from Dean’s bones in an instant, his existence caught up in Castiel’s arms. “I got you a whole park,” Dean laughs, nuzzling Castiel’s chest. “Gotta be better than a cemetery—”

Castiel kisses Dean’s cheek before Dean can properly react, face immediately flushing with the touch, with the heat that spreads through him. And before Castiel can pull away either, Dean cups the back of Castiel’s neck and pulls him in, meeting his lips in full. It feels like kissing a brick wall, but that doesn't deter Dean, even when he starts laughing, much to Castiel’s amusement. “I like this place very much,” Castiel says, nosing his way into Dean’s neck.

“It’ll be even better when the snow melts,” Dean chuckles. He draws his arms around Castiel’s neck, and Castiel just holds him in return, humming a nameless song between them. “I made it home.”

“I’m glad,” Castiel says. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”

Dean grins, and plants a kiss to Castiel’s temple. “I plan to.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally done! I meant to add another scene but I never could get around to writing it, but I love it all the same! Thanks to Bexy for betaing and [TheFriendlyPigeon](http://thefriendlypigeon.tumblr.com/post/174570251804/astra-et-luna-dcrb-2018-art-masterpost) for the lovely lovely art! I love both of you!
> 
> Title is from the Enya song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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